and crumbling, and here and there large stones had come loose, sometimes falling to the ground altogether. There were footholds for anyone daring enough to climb and she stood for a while, calculating whether she could manage the ascent without damaging either her dress or her limbs. She would have to, she decided. She hadn’t donned her second-best dress and come all this way merely to turn around. But it was more than that. She didn’t know why, but it seemed important that she see Justin Delacourt and see him today. She would have to get over that wall. She chose a section which was crumbling more quickly than elsewhere, and, hoisting her petticoats up around her knees, she reached up and began hand over hand to climb. It was fortunate that the lane abutting the wall was narrow and largely unused for it would have been mortifying to be caught showing her stockings. Once at the top of the wall she saw to her dismay that a long drop lay before her, since the inside of the wall had not succumbed to the elements as badly and there was no easy path to the ground. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and jumped, landing awkwardly on her ankle and bruising her shins. But she was in.
A pain shot through her foot. She would not stop to worry about it: she wanted to catch Justin Delacourt before he left the house for the day’s business and she had already wasted too much time. She had landed in a thicket of trees that appeared to be part of a larger spinney. The undergrowth was lush and uncut and straggling branches obliterated her view. Pushing past the trees, one after another, she attempted to find a path, but there seemed always to be another row of trees to negotiate. Then the first drops of rain fell. She had been so busy clambering over the wall she had not noticed the blue sky disappear and a menacing black take its place. The few drops soon became a downpour and then a veritable torrent. She pulled her cloak tightly to her, sheltering her hair beneath its hood, but in a short while she was wet to her very skin. The ground beneath her began to squelch ominously and she was dismayed to see the lower part of her dress as well as her boots become caked in mud. How could she accost Sir Justin looking such a fright? There was no hope for it—she would have to abandon her adventure and return to Brede House.
But she was lost. The spinney seemed to stretch for miles and she had no idea of the direction she should take. She could only hope that she would hit upon a road before she dissolved in the driving rain. She was bending down to loosen a twig that had become tangled in her skirts when she felt something hard and unyielding pressed into her back. A voice sounded through the downpour.
‘Right, me lad, let’s be ’avin’ yer. Yer can disguise yerself all yer wish, but yer ain’t gettin’ away. Not from Mellors. Chelwood Place ain’t open fer poachers—not now it ain’t.’
She tried to turn round and reveal herself. There was a gun to her back, she was sure, but if the man who spoke knew her to be a woman, surely he would lower the weapon and allow her to go.
He was taking no chances. ‘Keep yer back to me.’ He prodded her angrily with the weapon. ‘I knows yer tricks. Now walk!’
‘But...’ she started to protest.
‘Keep quiet and walk. By the sounds of yer, yer but a striplin’. What’s the world comin’ to, eh?’ And Mellors tutted softly to himself while keeping his weapon firmly levelled.
Lizzie had no option but to walk. She could sense the tension in the man and feel the hard pressure of the shotgun in her back. She did not think he would use it if she tried to escape, but she could not be sure and dared not take the chance. She was marched for minutes on end until they were out of the spinney and walking over smooth lawns towards the main driveway. This was the spot she had been seeking. A gig was drawn up outside the front entrance—precisely as she had imagined. The baronet would be leaving, she had decided, and as he came down the steps, she would trip up to the front door, telling some story of having become lost and wandered by accident on to his land, and looking a picture of primrose loveliness. He would wonder how he could ever have ignored such a delightful girl and, filled with contrition, immediately set about trying to please her. That was the fantasy. The reality was that her feet oozed mud, her hair dripped water and, far from tripping, she was being roughly frogmarched to an uncertain fate.
The man steered her towards the back of the sprawling mansion. She was being taken to the servants’ quarters, she thought—at least she would be spared the humiliation of meeting Justin Delacourt face to face. Down a long passageway they trundled, a passageway filled with doors, but at its very end a large, airy kitchen. The room was bright and homely, smelling of baked bread and fresh coffee and Lizzie realised how hungry she was. Her tiny breakfast seemed an age away.
‘Look ’ere, folks,’ the man said gleefully, ‘look what I’ve caught meself.’
The cook was just then taking newly baked cakes from the oven, but at the sound of Mellors’s voice, she stopped and looked around. The scullery maid on her knees paused in her scrubbing and the footman held aloft the silver he was polishing.
‘You best put that gun down,’ Cook said crossly. ‘Master won’t like that thing in the house.’
Mellors did as he was told, but was unwilling to give up his glory quite so quickly. ‘See ’ere,’ he repeated and pushed Lizzie into the centre of the room. ‘Take a look at me very first catch. There’ll be plenty more of ’em before I’m through.’
The cook sniffed at this pronouncement and the footman allowed himself a small snigger. Wearily the scullery maid began again on her scrubbing.
Lizzie stood in their midst, dripping puddles on to the flagstones, her cloak still wrapped around her, the hood still covering her head. Anger at this stupid man coursed through her veins. It wasn’t his fault that she was drenched, she conceded, but to be treated so disagreeably and then made a fairground exhibit was too much.
She pushed back the hood on her cape and shook her damp ringlets out. The cook, the maid, the footman, stopped again what they were doing and gawped, open-mouthed. Mellors, busy fetching a rope to bind his victim’s hands, turned round, surprised by the sudden ghastly silence. Even in her present state, Lizzie looked lovely. What she didn’t look was a poacher.
‘What have you done, Mr Mellors?’ Cook rubbed the flour from her hands with a satisfied smile on her face. It was clear that the new bailiff was not a popular man among his fellows.
Lizzie was swift to use the moment to her advantage. ‘How dare you!’ Her voice quivered with indignation. ‘How dare you treat a lady in such a dastardly fashion!’
Mellors looked bewildered, but still managed to stutter a reproof. ‘But yer wuz poachin’, miss.’ His obsession was all-consuming and he failed to see the absurdity of the situation.
‘Poaching! Are you completely witless? Do poachers normally come calling in a muslin dress?’
There was more sniggering from the footman and the unhappy bailiff hung his head a little lower. ‘No, miss, but...’
‘And if I am a poacher,’ Lizzie continued inexorably, ‘where are my tools? Do you think I have hid them? Perhaps you would like to search me for the odd snare?’
The footman guffawed at this idea, but the look she shot him bought his immediate silence.
‘And where, pray, are my illegitimate spoils? Why be a poacher and be empty-handed?’
‘You could ’ave ’idden the stuff, miss,’ he tried desperately.
‘Hidden? Upon my person, perhaps? You are ridiculous.’
‘Mebbe you warn’t poachin’, then, but you wuz still trespassin’,’ he continued doggedly.
‘I
